


Somewhere Over The Rainbow

by TheDeathOfRoses



Category: Glee
Genre: Death, M/M, WW2, WWII, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDeathOfRoses/pseuds/TheDeathOfRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't a war that Kurt wanted to fight in, but he had to. Even if it meant that he would eventually be killed during it. Even if it meant that he was going to have to shut his eyes to the alluring figure that just screamed for him to admit that he was gay. But this was war, and for him to do so would be illegal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Over The Rainbow

Kurt never wanted to fight in the war. Heck, he never wanted the war to start in the first place, but when France had declared war on Germany, his father had felt that it was only right for him to fight for his country. The meaning of this was far beyond Kurt, as his father wasn't in support of the Nazi party, but both men were soon serving for Germany. Kurt thought it was horrible. The girl next door, Rachel, her parents, and her best friend, Puck, were killed almost immediately. So was the sweet girl, Becky. Kurt sort of supposed that maybe, just maybe, his dad was making him fight so that he wouldn't die.

Kurt didn't fight as part of the air force. He fought on the ground, alongside others whom he wouldn't talk to like people until their last moments. A notable moment of that was when the young man, older than Kurt, but still very young, died. He'd been one of the unlucky ones. A new officer, as was indicated by the badge on his shoulder: Leutnant - Second Lieutenant. It was hard to watch him die, let alone have to kneel and comfort in his dying moments. Kurt remembered shutting his eyes and thanking God that it wasn't him, then thinking of his home, and what would be left of it when everything was over. He'd tried not to breathe too deeply, because breathing deeply meant inhaling the stench of war and death.

"Is there anyone back home that you can think of? Someone you love?" Kurt's voice had trembled in desperation. He'd just wanted to keep this man alive.

The man had nodded, moaning, "Emma..." He'd trailed off once he understood that the damage to his digestive tract was making it painful to speak.

Kurt had nodded, shutting his eyes and biting his lip to keep from crying. He was on the battlefield, this wasn't the first death that he'd seen. "C-can you think of Emma? Think of the train station that she'll be waiting in when you're back, think of how happy she'll be to see you!"

The poor man had just coughed weakly, spitting up blood.

Kurt had taken in a deep breath and shouted, doing his very best not to gag against the stench of rotting flesh and gunpowder and piss. "Goddamnit! Where the hell is the medical team?"

A blond man with a weird mouth had walked by, patting Kurt's shoulder and smiling, "They're tending to an injured general."

Kurt had brought his head back harshly, doing his best not to cry as he cursed under his breath. The blond man had run as more havoc began to start a few metres away from them, but had yelled at Kurt to wait it out with him while he died.

Kurt had looked down helplessly, ready to shout after the blond man for saying that in front of the young lieutenant, but the lieutenant had gone beyond any ounce of feeling for anything except the agony that he was in.

He'd died, obviously, with Kurt's hand on his cheek, trying to make him stay conscious.

Now, Kurt was curled in the corner of his tent, tearful. He'd looked up at the blond man, seeking comfort. Instead, he'd just been given harsh words,

"Just think that it could be you next, and stop crying for a man who was fucking lucky to have died as a Second Lieutenant rather than working up to a general and drowning in his guilt for the rest of his life, if he's lucky, the rest of the war."

Kurt choked, "Like the war'll be over by the time he's dead. Your stupid ideology is fucking irritating, Evans."

Evans, Sam, had walked past Kurt angrily, "Get up, Hummel. We have another shift in half an hour. Better be prepared."

And so, as Kurt had been doing for the past year, he dragged himself up and slouched to his wardrobe, he took his uniform out and did up the buttons before snatching up a sniper rifle and a 45 calibre pistol, just in case. He hated being a sniper with a passion. He knew that there was blood on his hands from the very first time he'd killed someone.

The General paced up and down the line of men. All of them were second lieutenants, and nobody wanted this job. It was a simple job, really: Make sure that anyone suspected to be a spy is shot. They knew the suspects well. Very well. They were among each other. The General slowed at Kurt's end, stopping at a man next to him [Kurt]. Kurt was about to breathe a sigh of relief. Then the General looked Kurt straight in the eye. Kurt scrambled to attention, fragments of his mind seeming to scatter out of consciousness.

"Sir!" His voice had sounded even higher in the tense silence.

The General had smirked, "So, who castrated you?"

Kurt hadn't meant to say what he'd said next, it had just sort of slipped out, "My testicles were vexed to explosion when I met you." And then he stopped, suddenly aware of what he'd said. He braced himself for whatever punishment he would receive, but then the General broke out into racous laughter. Many other men had felt compelled to join in, and Kurt had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be punished.

"What's your name?"

Kurt bit his lip, "Hummel, Kurt Hummel."

The General's face contorted into some sort of a smiling grimace, "Job's on you, Hummel."

Kurt knew better to object. He tried to block out the way he was dying inside. It was his duty to kill.

That night, Kurt picked up a gun, well aware of what he was supposed to be doing. But it was still murder and it was still all wrong. Kurt set out of his tent, mumbling angrily to himself. It was just one man who he was supposed to kill. He didn't know him, he hadn't met him. But even so, it was one of the hardest tasks he'd done.

The man was alone when Kurt got him in the night. Kurt had looked him straight in the eye and pulled the trigger, hitting him square in the chest. The man fell to his knees, trying to scream but managing only feeble croaks. He coughed up alarming amounts of blood and Kurt had to take a deep breath to keep from screaming himself. That was a mistake. Kurt hit his knees and began to retch. But at the rate Kurt was eating, all he'd be able to manage was dry-heaving. 

Then, after all of his energy was gone, Kurt's elbows gave out on him and he spent the rest of the night sobbing on the dirt and rubble of war. Maybe he'd die in the night. That would be nice.

First murder's always the hardest. That was Kurt's philosophy, anyway. All of them were hard, but none of them had left him in a sobbing heap like that first one had. 

Kurt had to put that all out of his memory now. He wouldn't embarrass himself like that again. He'd get to the tent without support from an unsympathetic Captain, and he wouldn't be laughed at by fellow soldiers when he got back.

Kurt took a step outside and shivered as a rush of cold night air hit his face. Looking around, he immediately saw two English soldiers. One was crying, one was dying. The one who was crying was probably going to die anyway. That's why Kurt shot him.

"Dad!" It was an anguished shout, thicker still now that the tears were marred with pain and regret. Kurt looked away and bit his lip hard enough to produce blood that he didn't feel through his controlled guilt.

Both of those men died slowly. Kurt would find out later that their names were Finn and Christopher Hudson and that the woman of their house would be left alone for the rest of her life now that they were dead.

For now, Kurt had to work. He jumped as a booming voice cut across the thick air.

"Hummel! Deal with the people in sector 4! Go!"  

And so Kurt sprinted to sector 4. He locked his vision on an English soldier, put his gun up to shoot, and... Stopped. He'd been taught to look whoever he killed in the eye and never forget them, but this person was different. His eyes didn't show the pure desire to just get out of the war zone and never go back. His hazel eyes reflected what was likely to be seen in Kurt's eyes. Not a wish to get out, a wish to die. Not a wish to win, a wish to stop. Not a wish to deflect others, a wish to be oneself. That was all reflected in this man's eyes.

Kurt looked over him and noticed that he was speaking. He'd assumed it was to a different soldier, but once he began to listen, he noticed that it was directed to him.

"Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me." It was those words over and over and over again.

Kurt shook his head, "I can't. I can't. I can't."

The other man had gritted his teeth, "We'll die anyway. Kill me. Kill me."

Kurt shook his head, "I love-." Then he cut off. This was not the time to out himself. Now would never be the time. Now was the time to hope and pray that no one heard him because if they did, he'd be sent to a concentration camp faster than he could pull a trigger.

The other man looked up, surprised. It wasn't, by any means, a bad surprise. The surprise over this, though, was short lived as another English soldier catapulted himself at the other man, protecting him from Evans, who was shooting wildly.

Kurt's breath caught in his throat, "Sam!" He called out.

Sam stopped and spun on his heel, "Do you want something?"

"What count are you on?"

"Not many. My aim is way off today."

"Is everything okay?"

Sam laughed, "Yes!"

Kurt nodded and turned back to the other men, pointing his gun straight at them. Instead of shooting at them, he flicked his wrist up and shot above them.

The soldier who had lunged at the man with hazel eyes laughed, "Your aim is shit!" 

Kurt turned on his heel and jogged at a steady pace. He killed 15 men that night. Of the two that he didn't kill, with one a silent promise was exchanged. The other was just a man. Just another man. 

He didn't see the hazel eyed man the next day. He didn't see him the next night either; the next night was worse than falling in love with someone who he wouldn't ever be allowed to love. Far, far worse. Sam sprinted into their tent in a panic, hands shaking on steady knees.

"Sam?"

Sam nodded and forced his words out, "Your dad... He works on the air force... bald, right?"

Kurt nodded, becoming edgy and worried, "What happened."

Sam swallowed, "He was shot."

Everything happened at once. Kurt was sweating but shivering and his adrenaline levels soared above anything considered normal. He began to sprint out of the tent, but he was stopped.

“Kurt! You don’t even know where he is!”

Kurt stopped and span on his heel, “Tell me.” He said, his voice low and urgent.

“He’s in the medical tent in sector six,” Sam swallowed, “He’s in pretty bad shape though, so please don’t do anything dangerous.”

Kurt was on his way to the medical tent when it happened again. He saw the hazel eyed man. The hazel eyed man had blood on his hands and looked as though he was about to cry. He looked at Kurt with recognition and gave him a tiny, heartbroken smile. Kurt’s face crumpled and then he was sobbing. The man looked taken aback, but still tried to give Kurt some comfort. He knew he had to go, but gave Kurt’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he ran past.

And then Kurt did the same. He ran, sprinted even, to the medical tent; he didn’t care about the feeling of physical pain in his chest, the metallic feeling in the back of his throat or the struggle to breathe against the heavy winds. He didn’t care that he was only still sprinting because of the adrenaline that was coursing through his body. He didn’t even care the world was spinning until he was still. It wasn’t the world that was spiralling out of control. It was his world. The next step would fix it or shatter it. He breathed in.

It was hell. 

“Severe damage has been done to the left atrium; the bullet has travelled upwards and burst the pulmonary artery!” 

“Do we take it out?”

The medic gave his colleague a look, “What do you think?”

Kurt shut his eyes, ‘They’ll take it out and this man will be fine and discharged.’ He repeated it to himself until the colleague spoke again.

“No, I suppose not.”

Kurt’s eyes snapped open.

“If he’s going to die, we’re going to want it to be less messy than that, aren’t we?”

Kurt took a deep breath, “Excuse me?”

Four medics snapped around to look at him. 

“What do you want?”

“I’m here for a Burt Hummel.”

A medic, one with a face like a bulldog, sighed. “Say your goodbyes to him. He’s a lost cause.”

Kurt’s lips parted into an expression of anguished shock, “No! No, he’s not! He doesn’t need to die! Treat him! Treat him! Please!” He screamed and shouted until a medic took the scruff of his uniform and kicked him out of the tent. He didn’t stop screaming. He didn’t stop until the hazel eyed man began to patrol the sector on another night shift, unaware that Kurt had been there all night. And they still didn’t speak properly, but the hazel eyed man quickly made his way over to Kurt and pulled him into a hug.

“What happened?” His voice was soft and vulnerable sounding.

“Dad died.” Kurt’s voice was just broken. Maybe it sounded more so because of the strong accent and the language barrier.

Footsteps approached behind them, and Blaine put Kurt at gunpoint and whispered to him, “Look terrified.”

Kurt didn’t need to do a thing to look terrified; any fear was genuine. Kurt swallowed as the English Colonel gave both men a suspicious look before running by them both. The Hazel eyed man’s arms and Kurt’s muscles seemed to relax simultaneously, because as soon as the freezing cold metal of the gun had it’s pressure removed from Kurt’s temple, Kurt collapsed sideways. He was there all night. 

He woke up on the scratching dirt with an immense feeling of unequivocal grief. And he remembered why instantly. Dad. Dead. He tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat to no avail as he heard the medics announce his father’s time of death from inside the tent. He’d lasted the night. He’d lasted the night and they did nothing for him in that time. Why? Why did the world have to be so fucking unfair? Why did he even have to live in this world?

Then it dawned on him. He didn’t. He felt for his own gun with shaking hands. The cold metal felt like home against his clammy hands. He looked it over with a kind of sick enjoyment: the barrel, the trigger, the gun itself. They were his key out of here. He looked into the barrel. Loaded. He gave a broken little smile at the metallic chink that sounded when he turned the safety off. He positioned the gun against his temple. His first finger slowly drew towards the trigger. He lightly touched it. Things would be over soon. He felt the cold shivers of excitement travel up and down his spine. Peace was only a second away. He slowly apologised to everyone he loved in his mind. And that was what it took.

He drew his arm back in one angry gesture and thrust the gun away from himself. It skidded across the battlefield and stopped a few yards away from where Kurt was kneeling. Kurt sobbed in spite of himself. It was one person. One stupid fucking Englishman who he wasn’t supposed to love. Hazel eyes. A broken gaze. War scars. They were all so beautiful in the same way that they shouldn’t be beautiful. And they kept him in this hellhole.

So he dragged his heavy, aching body up and made his way across the hellhole in the breaking freeze of the morning.

________________________________________________________

They were discovered at Burt’s funeral. It was just an accident that the hazel eyed man would stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time. A bad accident. But Kurt couldn’t restrain himself; in the silent, thick air of the mourning crowd, he broke the tension. He looked at the Hazel Eyed Man and said in a thin voice that was layered with tears, “I love you.”

The Hazel Eyed Man swallowed and replied in bad German, “Ich leibe dich.”

And then both were seized. 

It was 1944. It was 1944 and two men were being sent to the gas chambers with at least 200 other people. It was 1944 and two men never had their chance to live. But they took their chance to love with open arms.

Kurt said in a heavy voice, “I never learnt your name.”

The Hazel Eyed Man smiled; it was a genuine one this time, too, “It’s Blaine Anderson.”

Kurt smiled at him from his nervous place on the hard floor, “Kurt. Kurt Hummel.”

Blaine looked at him. “Need a distraction?”

Kurt nodded, “Anything.”

Blaine smiled, “Do you remember time before you were here?”

Kurt smiled brokenly, “Of course.”

Blaine looked at him and gripped his hand, “Did you ever go to the cinema and see those films that no-one else ever saw?”

Kurt nodded.

“Did you see ‘The Wizard of Oz’ in 1939?”

Kurt looked up, eyes a little brighter, “Yes!”

Blaine tightened his grip on Kurt’s hand, “Will you travel over the rainbow with me.”

Kurt smiled, “Always.”

And then the two voices merged in song.

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Way up high,

There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby

Kurt shut his eyes and dreamed of the freedom that had almost come for him, knowing without asking that Blaine was doing the same.

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Skies are blue,

And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

The dream was less than an hour away.

Someday I wish upon a star,

And wake up where the clouds are far,

Behind me

Soon.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

Way above the chimney tops,

That’s where you’ll find me.

Kurt gripped Blaine’s hand as the fear began to settle. What if he went to hell?

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Bluebirds fly,

Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh, why can’t I

Blaine settled his head on Kurt’s shoulder as breathing became difficult and Zyklon B filled the chamber.

If happy little bluebirds fly,

Beyond the rainbow, why then, oh why, can’t I?

ENDKurt never wanted to fight in the war. Heck, he never wanted the war to start in the first place, but when France had declared war on Germany, his father had felt that it was only right for him to fight for his country. The meaning of this was far beyond Kurt, as his father wasn't in support of the Nazi party, but both men were soon serving for Germany. Kurt thought it was horrible. The girl next door, Rachel, her parents, and her best friend, Puck, were killed almost immediately. So was the sweet girl, Becky. Kurt sort of supposed that maybe, just maybe, his dad was making him fight so that he wouldn't die.

Kurt didn't fight as part of the air force. He fought on the ground, alongside others whom he wouldn't talk to like people until their last moments. A notable moment of that was when the young man, older than Kurt, but still very young, died. He'd been one of the unlucky ones. A new officer, as was indicated by the badge on his shoulder: Leutnant - Second Lieutenant. It was hard to watch him die, let alone have to kneel and comfort in his dying moments. Kurt remembered shutting his eyes and thanking God that it wasn't him, then thinking of his home, and what would be left of it when everything was over. He'd tried not to breathe too deeply, because breathing deeply meant inhaling the stench of war and death.

"Is there anyone back home that you can think of? Someone you love?" Kurt's voice had trembled in desperation. He'd just wanted to keep this man alive.

The man had nodded, moaning, "Emma..." He'd trailed off once he understood that the damage to his digestive tract was making it painful to speak.

Kurt had nodded, shutting his eyes and biting his lip to keep from crying. He was on the battlefield, this wasn't the first death that he'd seen. "C-can you think of Emma? Think of the train station that she'll be waiting in when you're back, think of how happy she'll be to see you!"

The poor man had just coughed weakly, spitting up blood.

Kurt had taken in a deep breath and shouted, doing his very best not to gag against the stench of rotting flesh and gunpowder and piss. "Goddamnit! Where the hell is the medical team?"

A blond man with a weird mouth had walked by, patting Kurt's shoulder and smiling, "They're tending to an injured general."

Kurt had brought his head back harshly, doing his best not to cry as he cursed under his breath. The blond man had run as more havoc began to start a few metres away from them, but had yelled at Kurt to wait it out with him while he died.

Kurt had looked down helplessly, ready to shout after the blond man for saying that in front of the young lieutenant, but the lieutenant had gone beyond any ounce of feeling for anything except the agony that he was in.

He'd died, obviously, with Kurt's hand on his cheek, trying to make him stay conscious.

Now, Kurt was curled in the corner of his tent, tearful. He'd looked up at the blond man, seeking comfort. Instead, he'd just been given harsh words,

"Just think that it could be you next, and stop crying for a man who was fucking lucky to have died as a Second Lieutenant rather than working up to a general and drowning in his guilt for the rest of his life, if he's lucky, the rest of the war."

Kurt choked, "Like the war'll be over by the time he's dead. Your stupid ideology is fucking irritating, Evans."

Evans, Sam, had walked past Kurt angrily, "Get up, Hummel. We have another shift in half an hour. Better be prepared."

And so, as Kurt had been doing for the past year, he dragged himself up and slouched to his wardrobe, he took his uniform out and did up the buttons before snatching up a sniper rifle and a 45 calibre pistol, just in case. He hated being a sniper with a passion. He knew that there was blood on his hands from the very first time he'd killed someone.

The General paced up and down the line of men. All of them were second lieutenants, and nobody wanted this job. It was a simple job, really: Make sure that anyone suspected to be a spy is shot. They knew the suspects well. Very well. They were among each other. The General slowed at Kurt's end, stopping at a man next to him [Kurt]. Kurt was about to breathe a sigh of relief. Then the General looked Kurt straight in the eye. Kurt scrambled to attention, fragments of his mind seeming to scatter out of consciousness.

"Sir!" His voice had sounded even higher in the tense silence.

The General had smirked, "So, who castrated you?"

Kurt hadn't meant to say what he'd said next, it had just sort of slipped out, "My testicles were vexed to explosion when I met you." And then he stopped, suddenly aware of what he'd said. He braced himself for whatever punishment he would receive, but then the General broke out into racous laughter. Many other men had felt compelled to join in, and Kurt had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be punished.

"What's your name?"

Kurt bit his lip, "Hummel, Kurt Hummel."

The General's face contorted into some sort of a smiling grimace, "Job's on you, Hummel."

Kurt knew better to object. He tried to block out the way he was dying inside. It was his duty to kill.

That night, Kurt picked up a gun, well aware of what he was supposed to be doing. But it was still murder and it was still all wrong. Kurt set out of his tent, mumbling angrily to himself. It was just one man who he was supposed to kill. He didn't know him, he hadn't met him. But even so, it was one of the hardest tasks he'd done.

The man was alone when Kurt got him in the night. Kurt had looked him straight in the eye and pulled the trigger, hitting him square in the chest. The man fell to his knees, trying to scream but managing only feeble croaks. He coughed up alarming amounts of blood and Kurt had to take a deep breath to keep from screaming himself. That was a mistake. Kurt hit his knees and began to retch. But at the rate Kurt was eating, all he'd be able to manage was dry-heaving. 

Then, after all of his energy was gone, Kurt's elbows gave out on him and he spent the rest of the night sobbing on the dirt and rubble of war. Maybe he'd die in the night. That would be nice.

First murder's always the hardest. That was Kurt's philosophy, anyway. All of them were hard, but none of them had left him in a sobbing heap like that first one had. 

Kurt had to put that all out of his memory now. He wouldn't embarrass himself like that again. He'd get to the tent without support from an unsympathetic Captain, and he wouldn't be laughed at by fellow soldiers when he got back.

Kurt took a step outside and shivered as a rush of cold night air hit his face. Looking around, he immediately saw two English soldiers. One was crying, one was dying. The one who was crying was probably going to die anyway. That's why Kurt shot him.

"Dad!" It was an anguished shout, thicker still now that the tears were marred with pain and regret. Kurt looked away and bit his lip hard enough to produce blood that he didn't feel through his controlled guilt.

Both of those men died slowly. Kurt would find out later that their names were Finn and Christopher Hudson and that the woman of their house would be left alone for the rest of her life now that they were dead.

For now, Kurt had to work. He jumped as a booming voice cut across the thick air.

"Hummel! Deal with the people in sector 4! Go!"  

And so Kurt sprinted to sector 4. He locked his vision on an English soldier, put his gun up to shoot, and... Stopped. He'd been taught to look whoever he killed in the eye and never forget them, but this person was different. His eyes didn't show the pure desire to just get out of the war zone and never go back. His hazel eyes reflected what was likely to be seen in Kurt's eyes. Not a wish to get out, a wish to die. Not a wish to win, a wish to stop. Not a wish to deflect others, a wish to be oneself. That was all reflected in this man's eyes.

Kurt looked over him and noticed that he was speaking. He'd assumed it was to a different soldier, but once he began to listen, he noticed that it was directed to him.

"Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me." It was those words over and over and over again.

Kurt shook his head, "I can't. I can't. I can't."

The other man had gritted his teeth, "We'll die anyway. Kill me. Kill me."

Kurt shook his head, "I love-." Then he cut off. This was not the time to out himself. Now would never be the time. Now was the time to hope and pray that no one heard him because if they did, he'd be sent to a concentration camp faster than he could pull a trigger.

The other man looked up, surprised. It wasn't, by any means, a bad surprise. The surprise over this, though, was short lived as another English soldier catapulted himself at the other man, protecting him from Evans, who was shooting wildly.

Kurt's breath caught in his throat, "Sam!" He called out.

Sam stopped and spun on his heel, "Do you want something?"

"What count are you on?"

"Not many. My aim is way off today."

"Is everything okay?"

Sam laughed, "Yes!"

Kurt nodded and turned back to the other men, pointing his gun straight at them. Instead of shooting at them, he flicked his wrist up and shot above them.

The soldier who had lunged at the man with hazel eyes laughed, "Your aim is shit!" 

Kurt turned on his heel and jogged at a steady pace. He killed 15 men that night. Of the two that he didn't kill, with one a silent promise was exchanged. The other was just a man. Just another man. 

He didn't see the hazel eyed man the next day. He didn't see him the next night either; the next night was worse than falling in love with someone who he wouldn't ever be allowed to love. Far, far worse. Sam sprinted into their tent in a panic, hands shaking on steady knees.

"Sam?"

Sam nodded and forced his words out, "Your dad... He works on the air force... bald, right?"

Kurt nodded, becoming edgy and worried, "What happened."

Sam swallowed, "He was shot."

Everything happened at once. Kurt was sweating but shivering and his adrenaline levels soared above anything considered normal. He began to sprint out of the tent, but he was stopped.

“Kurt! You don’t even know where he is!”

Kurt stopped and span on his heel, “Tell me.” He said, his voice low and urgent.

“He’s in the medical tent in sector six,” Sam swallowed, “He’s in pretty bad shape though, so please don’t do anything dangerous.”

Kurt was on his way to the medical tent when it happened again. He saw the hazel eyed man. The hazel eyed man had blood on his hands and looked as though he was about to cry. He looked at Kurt with recognition and gave him a tiny, heartbroken smile. Kurt’s face crumpled and then he was sobbing. The man looked taken aback, but still tried to give Kurt some comfort. He knew he had to go, but gave Kurt’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he ran past.

And then Kurt did the same. He ran, sprinted even, to the medical tent; he didn’t care about the feeling of physical pain in his chest, the metallic feeling in the back of his throat or the struggle to breathe against the heavy winds. He didn’t care that he was only still sprinting because of the adrenaline that was coursing through his body. He didn’t even care the world was spinning until he was still. It wasn’t the world that was spiralling out of control. It was his world. The next step would fix it or shatter it. He breathed in.

It was hell. 

“Severe damage has been done to the left atrium; the bullet has travelled upwards and burst the pulmonary artery!” 

“Do we take it out?”

The medic gave his colleague a look, “What do you think?”

Kurt shut his eyes, ‘They’ll take it out and this man will be fine and discharged.’ He repeated it to himself until the colleague spoke again.

“No, I suppose not.”

Kurt’s eyes snapped open.

“If he’s going to die, we’re going to want it to be less messy than that, aren’t we?”

Kurt took a deep breath, “Excuse me?”

Four medics snapped around to look at him. 

“What do you want?”

“I’m here for a Burt Hummel.”

A medic, one with a face like a bulldog, sighed. “Say your goodbyes to him. He’s a lost cause.”

Kurt’s lips parted into an expression of anguished shock, “No! No, he’s not! He doesn’t need to die! Treat him! Treat him! Please!” He screamed and shouted until a medic took the scruff of his uniform and kicked him out of the tent. He didn’t stop screaming. He didn’t stop until the hazel eyed man began to patrol the sector on another night shift, unaware that Kurt had been there all night. And they still didn’t speak properly, but the hazel eyed man quickly made his way over to Kurt and pulled him into a hug.

“What happened?” His voice was soft and vulnerable sounding.

“Dad died.” Kurt’s voice was just broken. Maybe it sounded more so because of the strong accent and the language barrier.

Footsteps approached behind them, and Blaine put Kurt at gunpoint and whispered to him, “Look terrified.”

Kurt didn’t need to do a thing to look terrified; any fear was genuine. Kurt swallowed as the English Colonel gave both men a suspicious look before running by them both. The Hazel eyed man’s arms and Kurt’s muscles seemed to relax simultaneously, because as soon as the freezing cold metal of the gun had it’s pressure removed from Kurt’s temple, Kurt collapsed sideways. He was there all night. 

He woke up on the scratching dirt with an immense feeling of unequivocal grief. And he remembered why instantly. Dad. Dead. He tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat to no avail as he heard the medics announce his father’s time of death from inside the tent. He’d lasted the night. He’d lasted the night and they did nothing for him in that time. Why? Why did the world have to be so fucking unfair? Why did he even have to live in this world?

Then it dawned on him. He didn’t. He felt for his own gun with shaking hands. The cold metal felt like home against his clammy hands. He looked it over with a kind of sick enjoyment: the barrel, the trigger, the gun itself. They were his key out of here. He looked into the barrel. Loaded. He gave a broken little smile at the metallic chink that sounded when he turned the safety off. He positioned the gun against his temple. His first finger slowly drew towards the trigger. He lightly touched it. Things would be over soon. He felt the cold shivers of excitement travel up and down his spine. Peace was only a second away. He slowly apologised to everyone he loved in his mind. And that was what it took.

He drew his arm back in one angry gesture and thrust the gun away from himself. It skidded across the battlefield and stopped a few yards away from where Kurt was kneeling. Kurt sobbed in spite of himself. It was one person. One stupid fucking Englishman who he wasn’t supposed to love. Hazel eyes. A broken gaze. War scars. They were all so beautiful in the same way that they shouldn’t be beautiful. And they kept him in this hellhole.

So he dragged his heavy, aching body up and made his way across the hellhole in the breaking freeze of the morning.

________________________________________________________

They were discovered at Burt’s funeral. It was just an accident that the hazel eyed man would stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time. A bad accident. But Kurt couldn’t restrain himself; in the silent, thick air of the mourning crowd, he broke the tension. He looked at the Hazel Eyed Man and said in a thin voice that was layered with tears, “I love you.”

The Hazel Eyed Man swallowed and replied in bad German, “Ich leibe dich.”

And then both were seized. 

It was 1944. It was 1944 and two men were being sent to the gas chambers with at least 200 other people. It was 1944 and two men never had their chance to live. But they took their chance to love with open arms.

Kurt said in a heavy voice, “I never learnt your name.”

The Hazel Eyed Man smiled; it was a genuine one this time, too, “It’s Blaine Anderson.”

Kurt smiled at him from his nervous place on the hard floor, “Kurt. Kurt Hummel.”

Blaine looked at him. “Need a distraction?”

Kurt nodded, “Anything.”

Blaine smiled, “Do you remember time before you were here?”

Kurt smiled brokenly, “Of course.”

Blaine looked at him and gripped his hand, “Did you ever go to the cinema and see those films that no-one else ever saw?”

Kurt nodded.

“Did you see ‘The Wizard of Oz’ in 1939?”

Kurt looked up, eyes a little brighter, “Yes!”

Blaine tightened his grip on Kurt’s hand, “Will you travel over the rainbow with me.”

Kurt smiled, “Always.”

And then the two voices merged in song.

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Way up high,

There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby

Kurt shut his eyes and dreamed of the freedom that had almost come for him, knowing without asking that Blaine was doing the same.

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Skies are blue,

And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

The dream was less than an hour away.

Someday I wish upon a star,

And wake up where the clouds are far,

Behind me

Soon.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

Way above the chimney tops,

That’s where you’ll find me.

Kurt gripped Blaine’s hand as the fear began to settle. What if he went to hell?

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Bluebirds fly,

Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh, why can’t I

Blaine settled his head on Kurt’s shoulder as breathing became difficult and Zyklon B filled the chamber.

If happy little bluebirds fly,

Beyond the rainbow, why then, oh why, can’t I?

END

Kurt never wanted to fight in the war. Heck, he never wanted the war to start in the first place, but when France had declared war on Germany, his father had felt that it was only right for him to fight for his country. The meaning of this was far beyond Kurt, as his father wasn't in support of the Nazi party, but both men were soon serving for Germany. Kurt thought it was horrible. The girl next door, Rachel, her parents, and her best friend, Puck, were killed almost immediately. So was the sweet girl, Becky. Kurt sort of supposed that maybe, just maybe, his dad was making him fight so that he wouldn't die.

Kurt didn't fight as part of the air force. He fought on the ground, alongside others whom he wouldn't talk to like people until their last moments. A notable moment of that was when the young man, older than Kurt, but still very young, died. He'd been one of the unlucky ones. A new officer, as was indicated by the badge on his shoulder: Leutnant - Second Lieutenant. It was hard to watch him die, let alone have to kneel and comfort in his dying moments. Kurt remembered shutting his eyes and thanking God that it wasn't him, then thinking of his home, and what would be left of it when everything was over. He'd tried not to breathe too deeply, because breathing deeply meant inhaling the stench of war and death.

"Is there anyone back home that you can think of? Someone you love?" Kurt's voice had trembled in desperation. He'd just wanted to keep this man alive.

The man had nodded, moaning, "Emma..." He'd trailed off once he understood that the damage to his digestive tract was making it painful to speak.

Kurt had nodded, shutting his eyes and biting his lip to keep from crying. He was on the battlefield, this wasn't the first death that he'd seen. "C-can you think of Emma? Think of the train station that she'll be waiting in when you're back, think of how happy she'll be to see you!"

The poor man had just coughed weakly, spitting up blood.

Kurt had taken in a deep breath and shouted, doing his very best not to gag against the stench of rotting flesh and gunpowder and piss. "Goddamnit! Where the hell is the medical team?"

A blond man with a weird mouth had walked by, patting Kurt's shoulder and smiling, "They're tending to an injured general."

Kurt had brought his head back harshly, doing his best not to cry as he cursed under his breath. The blond man had run as more havoc began to start a few metres away from them, but had yelled at Kurt to wait it out with him while he died.

Kurt had looked down helplessly, ready to shout after the blond man for saying that in front of the young lieutenant, but the lieutenant had gone beyond any ounce of feeling for anything except the agony that he was in.

He'd died, obviously, with Kurt's hand on his cheek, trying to make him stay conscious.

Now, Kurt was curled in the corner of his tent, tearful. He'd looked up at the blond man, seeking comfort. Instead, he'd just been given harsh words,

"Just think that it could be you next, and stop crying for a man who was fucking lucky to have died as a Second Lieutenant rather than working up to a general and drowning in his guilt for the rest of his life, if he's lucky, the rest of the war."

Kurt choked, "Like the war'll be over by the time he's dead. Your stupid ideology is fucking irritating, Evans."

Evans, Sam, had walked past Kurt angrily, "Get up, Hummel. We have another shift in half an hour. Better be prepared."

And so, as Kurt had been doing for the past year, he dragged himself up and slouched to his wardrobe, he took his uniform out and did up the buttons before snatching up a sniper rifle and a 45 calibre pistol, just in case. He hated being a sniper with a passion. He knew that there was blood on his hands from the very first time he'd killed someone.

The General paced up and down the line of men. All of them were second lieutenants, and nobody wanted this job. It was a simple job, really: Make sure that anyone suspected to be a spy is shot. They knew the suspects well. Very well. They were among each other. The General slowed at Kurt's end, stopping at a man next to him [Kurt]. Kurt was about to breathe a sigh of relief. Then the General looked Kurt straight in the eye. Kurt scrambled to attention, fragments of his mind seeming to scatter out of consciousness.

"Sir!" His voice had sounded even higher in the tense silence.

The General had smirked, "So, who castrated you?"

Kurt hadn't meant to say what he'd said next, it had just sort of slipped out, "My testicles were vexed to explosion when I met you." And then he stopped, suddenly aware of what he'd said. He braced himself for whatever punishment he would receive, but then the General broke out into racous laughter. Many other men had felt compelled to join in, and Kurt had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't be punished.

"What's your name?"

Kurt bit his lip, "Hummel, Kurt Hummel."

The General's face contorted into some sort of a smiling grimace, "Job's on you, Hummel."

Kurt knew better to object. He tried to block out the way he was dying inside. It was his duty to kill.

That night, Kurt picked up a gun, well aware of what he was supposed to be doing. But it was still murder and it was still all wrong. Kurt set out of his tent, mumbling angrily to himself. It was just one man who he was supposed to kill. He didn't know him, he hadn't met him. But even so, it was one of the hardest tasks he'd done.

The man was alone when Kurt got him in the night. Kurt had looked him straight in the eye and pulled the trigger, hitting him square in the chest. The man fell to his knees, trying to scream but managing only feeble croaks. He coughed up alarming amounts of blood and Kurt had to take a deep breath to keep from screaming himself. That was a mistake. Kurt hit his knees and began to retch. But at the rate Kurt was eating, all he'd be able to manage was dry-heaving. 

Then, after all of his energy was gone, Kurt's elbows gave out on him and he spent the rest of the night sobbing on the dirt and rubble of war. Maybe he'd die in the night. That would be nice.

First murder's always the hardest. That was Kurt's philosophy, anyway. All of them were hard, but none of them had left him in a sobbing heap like that first one had. 

Kurt had to put that all out of his memory now. He wouldn't embarrass himself like that again. He'd get to the tent without support from an unsympathetic Captain, and he wouldn't be laughed at by fellow soldiers when he got back.

Kurt took a step outside and shivered as a rush of cold night air hit his face. Looking around, he immediately saw two English soldiers. One was crying, one was dying. The one who was crying was probably going to die anyway. That's why Kurt shot him.

"Dad!" It was an anguished shout, thicker still now that the tears were marred with pain and regret. Kurt looked away and bit his lip hard enough to produce blood that he didn't feel through his controlled guilt.

Both of those men died slowly. Kurt would find out later that their names were Finn and Christopher Hudson and that the woman of their house would be left alone for the rest of her life now that they were dead.

For now, Kurt had to work. He jumped as a booming voice cut across the thick air.

"Hummel! Deal with the people in sector 4! Go!"  

And so Kurt sprinted to sector 4. He locked his vision on an English soldier, put his gun up to shoot, and... Stopped. He'd been taught to look whoever he killed in the eye and never forget them, but this person was different. His eyes didn't show the pure desire to just get out of the war zone and never go back. His hazel eyes reflected what was likely to be seen in Kurt's eyes. Not a wish to get out, a wish to die. Not a wish to win, a wish to stop. Not a wish to deflect others, a wish to be oneself. That was all reflected in this man's eyes.

Kurt looked over him and noticed that he was speaking. He'd assumed it was to a different soldier, but once he began to listen, he noticed that it was directed to him.

"Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me." It was those words over and over and over again.

Kurt shook his head, "I can't. I can't. I can't."

The other man had gritted his teeth, "We'll die anyway. Kill me. Kill me."

Kurt shook his head, "I love-." Then he cut off. This was not the time to out himself. Now would never be the time. Now was the time to hope and pray that no one heard him because if they did, he'd be sent to a concentration camp faster than he could pull a trigger.

The other man looked up, surprised. It wasn't, by any means, a bad surprise. The surprise over this, though, was short lived as another English soldier catapulted himself at the other man, protecting him from Evans, who was shooting wildly.

Kurt's breath caught in his throat, "Sam!" He called out.

Sam stopped and spun on his heel, "Do you want something?"

"What count are you on?"

"Not many. My aim is way off today."

"Is everything okay?"

Sam laughed, "Yes!"

Kurt nodded and turned back to the other men, pointing his gun straight at them. Instead of shooting at them, he flicked his wrist up and shot above them.

The soldier who had lunged at the man with hazel eyes laughed, "Your aim is shit!" 

Kurt turned on his heel and jogged at a steady pace. He killed 15 men that night. Of the two that he didn't kill, with one a silent promise was exchanged. The other was just a man. Just another man. 

He didn't see the hazel eyed man the next day. He didn't see him the next night either; the next night was worse than falling in love with someone who he wouldn't ever be allowed to love. Far, far worse. Sam sprinted into their tent in a panic, hands shaking on steady knees.

"Sam?"

Sam nodded and forced his words out, "Your dad... He works on the air force... bald, right?"

Kurt nodded, becoming edgy and worried, "What happened."

Sam swallowed, "He was shot."

Everything happened at once. Kurt was sweating but shivering and his adrenaline levels soared above anything considered normal. He began to sprint out of the tent, but he was stopped.

“Kurt! You don’t even know where he is!”

Kurt stopped and span on his heel, “Tell me.” He said, his voice low and urgent.

“He’s in the medical tent in sector six,” Sam swallowed, “He’s in pretty bad shape though, so please don’t do anything dangerous.”

Kurt was on his way to the medical tent when it happened again. He saw the hazel eyed man. The hazel eyed man had blood on his hands and looked as though he was about to cry. He looked at Kurt with recognition and gave him a tiny, heartbroken smile. Kurt’s face crumpled and then he was sobbing. The man looked taken aback, but still tried to give Kurt some comfort. He knew he had to go, but gave Kurt’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he ran past.

And then Kurt did the same. He ran, sprinted even, to the medical tent; he didn’t care about the feeling of physical pain in his chest, the metallic feeling in the back of his throat or the struggle to breathe against the heavy winds. He didn’t care that he was only still sprinting because of the adrenaline that was coursing through his body. He didn’t even care the world was spinning until he was still. It wasn’t the world that was spiralling out of control. It was his world. The next step would fix it or shatter it. He breathed in.

It was hell. 

“Severe damage has been done to the left atrium; the bullet has travelled upwards and burst the pulmonary artery!” 

“Do we take it out?”

The medic gave his colleague a look, “What do you think?”

Kurt shut his eyes, ‘They’ll take it out and this man will be fine and discharged.’ He repeated it to himself until the colleague spoke again.

“No, I suppose not.”

Kurt’s eyes snapped open.

“If he’s going to die, we’re going to want it to be less messy than that, aren’t we?”

Kurt took a deep breath, “Excuse me?”

Four medics snapped around to look at him. 

“What do you want?”

“I’m here for a Burt Hummel.”

A medic, one with a face like a bulldog, sighed. “Say your goodbyes to him. He’s a lost cause.”

Kurt’s lips parted into an expression of anguished shock, “No! No, he’s not! He doesn’t need to die! Treat him! Treat him! Please!” He screamed and shouted until a medic took the scruff of his uniform and kicked him out of the tent. He didn’t stop screaming. He didn’t stop until the hazel eyed man began to patrol the sector on another night shift, unaware that Kurt had been there all night. And they still didn’t speak properly, but the hazel eyed man quickly made his way over to Kurt and pulled him into a hug.

“What happened?” His voice was soft and vulnerable sounding.

“Dad died.” Kurt’s voice was just broken. Maybe it sounded more so because of the strong accent and the language barrier.

Footsteps approached behind them, and Blaine put Kurt at gunpoint and whispered to him, “Look terrified.”

Kurt didn’t need to do a thing to look terrified; any fear was genuine. Kurt swallowed as the English Colonel gave both men a suspicious look before running by them both. The Hazel eyed man’s arms and Kurt’s muscles seemed to relax simultaneously, because as soon as the freezing cold metal of the gun had it’s pressure removed from Kurt’s temple, Kurt collapsed sideways. He was there all night. 

He woke up on the scratching dirt with an immense feeling of unequivocal grief. And he remembered why instantly. Dad. Dead. He tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat to no avail as he heard the medics announce his father’s time of death from inside the tent. He’d lasted the night. He’d lasted the night and they did nothing for him in that time. Why? Why did the world have to be so fucking unfair? Why did he even have to live in this world?

Then it dawned on him. He didn’t. He felt for his own gun with shaking hands. The cold metal felt like home against his clammy hands. He looked it over with a kind of sick enjoyment: the barrel, the trigger, the gun itself. They were his key out of here. He looked into the barrel. Loaded. He gave a broken little smile at the metallic chink that sounded when he turned the safety off. He positioned the gun against his temple. His first finger slowly drew towards the trigger. He lightly touched it. Things would be over soon. He felt the cold shivers of excitement travel up and down his spine. Peace was only a second away. He slowly apologised to everyone he loved in his mind. And that was what it took.

He drew his arm back in one angry gesture and thrust the gun away from himself. It skidded across the battlefield and stopped a few yards away from where Kurt was kneeling. Kurt sobbed in spite of himself. It was one person. One stupid fucking Englishman who he wasn’t supposed to love. Hazel eyes. A broken gaze. War scars. They were all so beautiful in the same way that they shouldn’t be beautiful. And they kept him in this hellhole.

So he dragged his heavy, aching body up and made his way across the hellhole in the breaking freeze of the morning.

________________________________________________________

They were discovered at Burt’s funeral. It was just an accident that the hazel eyed man would stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time. A bad accident. But Kurt couldn’t restrain himself; in the silent, thick air of the mourning crowd, he broke the tension. He looked at the Hazel Eyed Man and said in a thin voice that was layered with tears, “I love you.”

The Hazel Eyed Man swallowed and replied in bad German, “Ich leibe dich.”

And then both were seized. 

It was 1944. It was 1944 and two men were being sent to the gas chambers with at least 200 other people. It was 1944 and two men never had their chance to live. But they took their chance to love with open arms.

Kurt said in a heavy voice, “I never learnt your name.”

The Hazel Eyed Man smiled; it was a genuine one this time, too, “It’s Blaine Anderson.”

Kurt smiled at him from his nervous place on the hard floor, “Kurt. Kurt Hummel.”

Blaine looked at him. “Need a distraction?”

Kurt nodded, “Anything.”

Blaine smiled, “Do you remember time before you were here?”

Kurt smiled brokenly, “Of course.”

Blaine looked at him and gripped his hand, “Did you ever go to the cinema and see those films that no-one else ever saw?”

Kurt nodded.

“Did you see ‘The Wizard of Oz’ in 1939?”

Kurt looked up, eyes a little brighter, “Yes!”

Blaine tightened his grip on Kurt’s hand, “Will you travel over the rainbow with me.”

Kurt smiled, “Always.”

And then the two voices merged in song.

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Way up high,

There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby

Kurt shut his eyes and dreamed of the freedom that had almost come for him, knowing without asking that Blaine was doing the same.

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Skies are blue,

And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

The dream was less than an hour away.

Someday I wish upon a star,

And wake up where the clouds are far,

Behind me

Soon.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops

Way above the chimney tops,

That’s where you’ll find me.

Kurt gripped Blaine’s hand as the fear began to settle. What if he went to hell?

Somewhere over the Rainbow,

Bluebirds fly,

Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh, why can’t I

Blaine settled his head on Kurt’s shoulder as breathing became difficult and Zyklon B filled the chamber.

If happy little bluebirds fly,

Beyond the rainbow, why then, oh why, can’t I?

END


End file.
